


Don't Say Magic Is Real

by IvyDevoss



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, queliot, semi-au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6244426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyDevoss/pseuds/IvyDevoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look, don’t go out there and be the old you.”<br/>“How, Eliot? I go back there, and I’m… I’m a depressed super-nerd.”<br/>“How about I find you, and I don’t say magic is real, but I do seduce you, and so lift your spirits that life retains its sparkle for decades?”<br/>“Yeah, that sounds nice. Thank you.”<br/>“Okay.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much what it sounds like. What if Quentin had been expelled and had his mind wiped after all? Obviously, Eliot, being the good friend that he is, would carry through on his promise...
> 
> (I'm doing another Queliot fic, people. I can't believe myself.)

As far as Quentin was concerned, it was a joke, a weak attempt to distract him from his looming fate.  
As far as Eliot was concerned, they had basically signed a pact in blood. Except not really, of course, because that was so passé.

***

Quentin found himself walking down the gray streets of New York, automatically hunching up his shoulders against the cold—like that would make any difference. The Yale interview had gone fine, of course, just like Julia had assured him it would. He couldn’t remember the precise details, even though it had happened not half an hour ago, but for some reason that didn’t worry him. His mind skated serenely away in other directions.

Back at home, his parents exhibited only the mildest interest in hearing his news, which of course was to be expected. His mom said something about him probably going to Yale, then? while noting down something from her laptop screen into her daily planner, and Quentin mumbled a non-committal response. He had another interview in a week, for Columbia. He wasn’t sure which place he would prefer yet. Maybe the latter. Just because his parents seemed to be leaning towards Yale. But there was no point thinking about it until he had more than one acceptance to choose from… if that ended up happening.

Up in his room, Quentin dropped his bag in a corner and flopped down on the bed. He texted Julia. _Mission complete. Think it went okay._ There was no reply—it stayed marked as unread. She was probably with James. Whatever. Quentin rolled over and stared at the ceiling. Plain and blank and boring, with a couple of hairline cracks that weren’t going anywhere any time soon. Just like always. Just like the rest of his life.

***

Two weeks later, the Columbia interview was complete as well, and Quentin was pretty sure he had his two acceptances to pick from. He decided to go out and grab a drink to celebrate, not so much because he really felt like celebrating but rather because he couldn’t stand to sit in his room another night and do nothing. Normally he would have been hanging out with Julia more, but she had been weirdly incommunicado since the day of his Yale interview. He hadn’t seen her at all, and the few times she’d responded to his texts, she’d given weak excuses about being super busy with school work. He kind of thought he would text her again tonight and let her know he was chilling at Donno’s, which was one of their favorite bars.

Two hours later, Quentin was sitting on a barstool and checking his phone for the third time. His message to Julia was still marked as unread. He was considering texting James, weighing the awkwardness of drinking alone against the awkwardness of seeming like a clingy friend, when the person sitting next to him at the bar spoke up.

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but if you’re expecting someone, I’m pretty sure they’re not turning up at this point.” Actually it had kind of sounded like the guy said “Hate to break it to you, Q” but obviously that was impossible, so his brain rapidly supplied the more likely alternative.

He almost fumbled his phone, jamming it into his hoodie pocket in what was supposed to be a casual way but probably actually looked kind of frantic. “Oh, no, um, I just…”

His words caught in his throat as he got a good look at the person in question, who was currently offering him a slow but spreading grin. He was certainly not out of place in a New York bar, but in this particular bar, he was the most dressed-up drinker by a mile. He was tall, with artfully messy dark curls, a maroon satin vest, and what looked like ridiculously expensive shoes, probably Italian leather or some shit. He also instantly struck Quentin as being probably gay—not that Quentin had especially good gaydar, but sometimes there was really no question about it. That added a certain layer of complication. Quentin hadn’t ever actually been hit on by a dude before, and in a flash of panic he realized that he couldn’t tell if that was currently happening to him or not.

“Yeah, uh, I just—I—was just checking… something,” Quentin finished lamely, mentally wincing at how flustered he sounded. There was something almost otherworldly about this guy, and it put him out of whack. Not that he’d been particularly in whack before, but now he was definitely out of it.

“Sure,” the guy drawled, spinning his empty glass nimbly between his fingers. “By the way—” he leaned closer, his gaze shifting meaningfully to Quentin's glass— “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”

Quentin glanced at it as well. He was kind of broke at the moment, but he and Julia and James had a tradition of drinking wine when they came to Donno’s, so he’d ordered the cheapest red on the menu. “Why not? What’s wrong with it?” Holy shit. Had somebody spiked his drink or something?

The other guy winced. “It’s a Ghiallo, that’s what’s wrong with it. I’ve been in physical pain for the last ten minutes, watching you sip that swill. For the love of God, please let me buy you something at least halfway acceptable. Because honey, that is not fit for human consumption.”

Oh crap. Okay, so he was definitely being hit on. Shit. How to defuse the situation?

“I’m not gay,” he blurted. Fuck. Not classy, Quentin. He could feel his cheeks heating up as he started mentally berating himself for that moment of idiocy.

“I didn’t say you were.” The guy looked hurt, like Quentin was an old friend who had stabbed him in the back.

“Then why—uh… why are you offering to buy me a drink?” Quentin’s words stumbled over each other, but he had accidentally sent the conversation into this territory so he might as well stick to his guns.

The other guy gave an elegant one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. I’m bored. And you obviously just got stood up, so…”

“I didn’t—she’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, maybe _she_ thinks that.” Those eyes were on him, watching carefully, and Quentin instantly resented the dude for his perceptiveness. And then his resentment shifted targets. Fucking Julia. She’d been blowing him off for a solid two weeks now. Why shouldn’t he let some over-friendly gay weirdo buy him a drink? At least one person on earth seemed to care that he existed tonight.

“You know what? Fine.” Quentin stuffed both his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “What, in your oh-so-fancy opinion, is worth drinking on this menu?”

The guy’s face lit up. “I didn’t think you’d say yes! Okay, so, first of all, let’s move to the couch over there in the corner. The music’s too loud right here, I can’t hear myself think. Then I’ll get you something you won’t regret in the morning, unlike that crap.” He made a dismissive gesture at Quentin’s half-empty glass before getting up from his barstool and leading the way towards the couch in question. “I’m Eliot, by the way,” he said over his shoulder.

Quentin had a moment where he hesitated to follow—what the actual fuck did he think he was doing?—but the half-glass of bad wine that he already had intus was apparently just enough to take away a couple of inhibitions. Because even if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing, the fact remained that he seemed to be doing it.


	2. Chapter 2

The friendly stranger named Eliot fussed around Quentin for a moment like a mother hen, making sure he was comfortably ensconced on the couch in the corner before darting back to the bar and returning almost instantly with a tall glass full of a dark red liquid and topped off with a tiny paper parasol. Quentin looked askance at the parasol but didn’t say anything. You don’t insult a free drink.

His first sip told him it was some sort of mixed drink—powerful yet enticingly fruity. His second sip followed rapidly on the heels of the first.

“So tell me,” Eliot started, a new glass in his hand as well. “Why on earth would anyone drink Ghiallo? I thought they used that stuff to clean toilets.”

Quentin shrugged, making a face at the vivid description. “It’s cheap. I have no cash on me and they’re weird about credit here. They always want to make you open a tab.”

His companion looked perplexed. “What kind of happiness-hating person would ever _not_ open a tab?”

Quentin was beginning to get a picture of this guy’s proclivities in life, and for some reason he found himself smiling. “Hey now. Sometimes I only feel like having one drink.”

Eliot leaned back on the couch next to him and studied Quentin closely as the latter continued to nurse his surprisingly delicious concoction. “I don’t mean to pry, but from the way you were looking earlier, I’m pretty sure you could use more than one drink tonight.”

“It’s really not what you think,” Quentin protested.

“Oh yeah? What do I think?” Eliot adjusted his position, aiming himself a little more towards Quentin, who again got the strong impression he was being flirted with. But the more he drank, the less he cared, and it was actually really nice to have somebody displaying this much interest in him for once.

“You think I’ve been pining after this girl for ages and she’s always seen me as nothing but a friend,” Quentin announced. His triumph at guessing correctly—as demonstrated by an acknowledging twitch of his companion’s eyebrows—was immediately followed by a virtual wince as he played back his own words to himself.

Luckily Eliot was merciful and didn’t point out Quentin’s inability to argue with those same damning words.

“Well. That may be so, but regardless of your relationship—or lack of one—with this mystery lady, I think you need to forget about her and have a good time tonight. Starting now. With me. No, don’t argue; I know what I’m talking about. Shall we hijack the sound system?”

At this point, Quentin wasn’t sure if it was the drink or his fellow drinker, but something was definitely making him feel dangerously reckless, and he grinned wider than he had in weeks. “How do we do that?”

Eliot lowered his voice, leaning in close. “I’ve got the technical side covered. You might say I’m a wizard when it comes to gadgets. All we need is a distraction. Can you get the bartender to step outside for just a minute?”

“Sure,” Quentin said at once, although he hadn’t the foggiest idea how he was going to do this.

“Good man.” Eliot gave him a conspiratorial wink and then he was gone.

Quentin tossed back the last half-inch of his drink, got to his feet, and wobbled perilously for a moment before getting his sea legs. “Hey barman!” he yelled. The bartender glared across the room. “This drink, I like it.” Was he really about to do this? Yes he was. “Another!” The glass hit the floor with a satisfying crash of breaking glass, and somebody screamed.

Quentin laughed in amazement at himself as he was ejected from the bar faster than he’d thought was physically possible. Too late, part of him realized that Eliot probably hadn’t meant something quite this extreme when he suggested a distraction. But in for a penny, in for a pound, right?

The bartender had dumped Quentin on the sidewalk and turned away to go back inside, but Quentin grabbed his leg. He had to stall for time—didn’t want Eliot to get in trouble. “Hey, wait!”

The guy turned around, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Listen buddy, you want me to call the cops? Because I will—”

“No!” Quentin interrupted in what he desperately hoped was a soothing tone. “I just wanted to tell you… uh… you—you have beautiful eyes.”

The eyes in question narrowed to ominous slits. “Oh, you’re a smart guy, huh? Shut the fuck up.”

“Wow.” Quentin shook his head. “Haters gonna hate, huh?”

And as if by heavenly providence, at that precise moment, Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” began blasting from the open door of the bar, so loud that even out here it made the bartender jump.

_Players gonna play, play, play, play, play…_

The look on the bartender’s face was priceless. Quentin burst into shocked laughter again. He was only now beginning to realize exactly how drunk he was. He struggled to his knees and stared in through the window to see Eliot prancing around on top of the bar pretending to conduct while a bunch of girls enthusiastically started dancing and singing along.

Five minutes later, both of them had been told in no uncertain words—while the song on the sound system changed to "The Safety Dance"—to get and stay the hell out of Donno’s. If he’d been sober, Quentin might have worried about how long this ban might apply for, but right now he was living in the moment, with a weird but kind of awesome brand new friend who was currently declaiming about how much more adventure awaited them on every street corner.

“ _The night is young, and so am I,_ ” warbled Eliot, somewhat off-key but with panache, and slung an arm around Quentin’s shoulders as they staggered down the sidewalk together. “New York City is magic, Quentin. Magic, I tell you. So much energy in such a small space…”

***

The next morning, Quentin’s pounding headache almost obliterated his patchy memories of what had been either last night or an exceptionally weird dream.

There was something about smashing a glass and getting thrown out of Donno’s to the tune of Taylor Swift… and then a scene in another bar, facing off with a huge shaggy-haired guy who carried a violin case and snarled like a dog… and then a taxi driver who obliviously told them his life story while careening around corners at fifty miles an hour, with Eliot clutching Quentin’s arm in the backseat and whispering in a panic that he was quite sure his hair was turning white… and then in some other underground bar, Eliot proudly telling someone that Quentin was ‘so dramatic, he smashes his glass on the floor when he’s done drinking’… and then finally on a rooftop somewhere they were most definitely not supposed to be, in that loud city quiet of the small hours of the night, sitting cross-legged between air-conditioning ventilators humming a soft white-noise background as Eliot confessed his childhood on a farm while they alternated sips from a hip flask that never seemed to run dry.

Was any of it real? Was Eliot even real? Quentin wasn’t sure how he made it from his bed to the bathroom, where he almost threw up but not quite. He stood with his hands propped on the sides of the sink for a solid five minutes before getting up the courage to lift his head and look at himself in the mirror, which he instantly regretted. Okay, this mother of all hangovers was unfortunately very real, and Quentin (almost) never got drunk on his own, so that was one solid point in favor of last night being more than some crazy dream. But wow… if so, where the hell had that all come from?

Ten minutes later, having poured some water down his throat and crawled back into bed to think things over, Quentin felt equal parts impressed and horrified by his memories of what he’d done last night. It was really quite unlike him. Why had he suddenly bonded so intensely with this total stranger in a bar and then made a night out of it?

And… wait. Wait. Hang on a second. He could recall very clearly—well, kind of clearly—that at the beginning of the night, Eliot had been quite obviously flirting with him. So did that mean… had they… was there another part of the night that Quentin couldn’t remember? No. Of course not! No way. He would have remembered that. He wouldn’t have wanted to… he would have said no… he would have…

“Fuck,” Quentin groaned, rolling over and pressing his face into his pillow. God damn it, why couldn’t he remember more of last night?

A brilliant idea struck him. They must have exchanged numbers at some point, right?

But a quick scroll through his contacts showed that there were no new numbers. Not so brilliant after all, then. Damn it.

Quentin spent the rest of the day pretending he wasn’t waiting for Eliot to text him, on the off-chance he’d only given his number without getting one in return. It didn’t happen, though. Nobody texted him at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I had most of the next chapter finished for a long time already, but I got stuck in some serious writer's block. Hopefully it's past now :)

The week dragged by so slowly it almost seemed as if someone had performed some kind of weird magic trick to slow down time. But of course magic wasn’t real, so the only logical explanation was that his day-to-day life was painfully boring in comparison to that one wild night of barhopping with the mysterious Eliot. Quentin was furious with his drunk self for not getting the guy’s number, or at least his full name so he could find him on Facebook, or whatever. Making friends was hard, okay? And the fact that he’d clicked so well with this guy was an event the rarity of which Quentin knew how to appreciate.

Friday rolled around, and that night Quentin went to bed at ten and slept for twelve hours. It had been a while since he’d done that, and he always felt kind of disappointed in himself when he did it. But honestly, being unconscious was often preferable to reality. Not that reality was so horrible… it was just kind of dull.

James had texted him and said that he and Julia were going to a house party Saturday night, and would Quentin like to meet them there? Although it had been ages since he’d seen his friends, Quentin still felt kind of resentful of Julia for ignoring his messages, so he hadn’t replied to the text yet. He was probably going to go to the party, because there was nothing else to do, but right now he was still leaving his options open. His mind refused to acknowledge the fact that he was also kind of hoping Eliot might still get in touch… although after a solid week of radio silence, the likelihood was low.

After waking up late on Saturday and doing absolutely nothing worth recounting all day, Quentin finally grudgingly replied to James’s text around four in the afternoon.

_– Yeah okay. Is it BYOB?_

_– We’ve got that covered_

Reading the response made Quentin feel guilty that he’d waited so long to reply. James was obviously offering the olive branch, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong himself. Of course, this made Quentin feel even worse about his petty anger, and he found himself desperately wishing that he’d fall down and break his leg or something so he’d have an excuse not to go tonight after all.

But of course that didn’t happen, so he went.

He didn’t actually know the person who was hosting, but she was supposedly some friend of Julia’s, so he would probably see some other people he knew there. Sure enough, as soon as he stepped into the foyer and paused, wondering whether to hang up his jacket or not, a curly-haired girl with a vaguely familiar face pushed open the interior door and said “There he is!”

Immediately behind her was James. “Quentin my man! Come on in, stranger.”

Their shoulder-bump-hug was only slightly awkward, with tiny unspoken apologies evident on both sides, coupled with an immediate silent agreement not to mention how long it had been since they’d seen each other. “Where’s Julia?” Quentin asked, and a weird strained look came over James’s face.

“Somewhere here, unless she’s left,” he said lightly, as if trying to spin it as a joke. It fell flat, and Quentin gave him a confused look. James sighed. “She’s been… off lately. I don’t know what’s up. You tell me what you think once you’ve talked to her. I can’t figure it out.”

The words made a heavy ball of nervousness gather in Quentin’s stomach. As irritated as he’d been at Julia for ignoring his attempts to reach out, he still cared about her a lot and immediately started constructing worst-case scenarios in his mind as James led the way further into the crowded apartment. Was Julia on drugs? Cheating on James? Spiraling into a depressive episode? Possibilities were rapidly reviewed and rejected one after the other, until Quentin chided himself: _Shut up! You haven’t even seen her yet. You have no idea what he means by ‘off’._

It was another fifteen minutes or so before Julia finally did show up seemingly out of nowhere, and when Quentin caught sight of her he almost didn’t recognize her at first. The ‘drugs’ theory reared its ugly head back up at once. She looked pale, drawn, distracted, and notably older and thinner than when he’d seen her last—less than a month ago. There were bags under her eyes and her hair was dull instead of shiny.

“Jules!” He rushed up to her, immediately forgetting the past few weeks of resentment. “Hi! How have you… been?”

She didn’t smile to see him, but she seemed to be putting on a mask of normality—or at least making a weak attempt at it. “Fine… busy.”

Quentin waited for more, but there was no more. “Uh, okay. Do you want a drink or something?”

“Sure.” She waited for him to start heading towards the drink table and then followed. When he glanced over his shoulder he saw her looking around the room, but not like she was actually looking for something or someone… rather as if she were simply sending her eyes in various directions while her mind was looking at something else entirely.

For the rest of the evening, conversation between the three of them was all but impossible to hold up, despite James’s best efforts. At some point Quentin simply couldn’t stand it anymore and excused himself to the bathroom even though he didn’t need to go.

After shutting the door and blocking out the sounds of the party, he leaned against the wall and pressed his hands to his eyes. What was going on?!? Why wouldn’t Julia offer anything more than distracted monosyllabic answers to his questions, and why did she seem almost completely oblivious to the presence of James? Why had Quentin caught her giving him a measuring, almost suspicious gaze a few times before it quickly melted into a blank expression that was utterly impossible to read?

Somebody pounded on the door. “Just a minute!” Quentin yelled, but the knocking didn’t let up. It only varied its rhythm. Quentin growled in frustration and swung the door open, his mouth already open to tell the douchebag to take a chill pill—but his words died in his throat when he saw who it was.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” asked Eliot, leaning rakishly on the doorframe.

“What?! How are you—” Quentin rapidly peered to both sides, but Eliot seemed to be unaccompanied. Without even stopping to consider how weird it was, Quentin grabbed his arm and pulled him into the bathroom before shutting the door again. He turned around and leaned against it, staring in shock as Eliot glanced around the small space, unimpressed.

“Why do you go to parties if you’re only going to hide in the bathroom?”

“Why—are you—what?!? I didn’t think—how did you—” Quentin sputtered, unable to form a complete sentence. “You just vanished, last weekend! I wasn’t sure if I was ever—”

“Ever gonna see me again?” Eliot finished, with a Cheshire-cat grin. “Aw, Q, I didn’t know you cared.”

“You—ugh.” Quentin sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and clutched his head in both hands.

Eliot tsk’d softly and perched on the edge of the bathtub next to him. “Sorry about that. I can only make it down to the city on weekends, you see. Grad school keeps me busy. I wasn’t sure if you’d even remember Friday night. You were pretty smashed, as I recall,” he added in a fond tone.

Quentin lifted his head and stared at Eliot, still unable to string the right words together. The feeling of relief rushing over him at seeing this weirdo again was intense enough to confuse the more logical part of his mind, and with this internal battle of awkwardness going on, his speech centers had apparently decided to give up the ghost.

Eliot seemed to understand, because he patted Quentin comfortingly on the shoulder. “It’s okay. I sometimes get tongue-tied when I look in the mirror, so I know what you’re going through.”

Quentin let out a weak laugh. “Did—last week, Friday, uh—did we, um…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Eliot tipped his head to one side. “Did we sleep together? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Yes.” The word came out as more of a squeak.

“No, of course not!” Eliot looked aghast. “You were drunk, Quentin. I wouldn’t have taken advantage, that’s terrible.”

“Sorry,” Quentin mumbled in embarrassed relief.

“Plus, I would have wanted you to remember it. I’ve been told I have certain… talents.” His grin was practically predatory this time, but Quentin could tell that Eliot was trying to move them both smoothly on from the discomfort of the moment, and he was unspeakably grateful for it.

“Yeah, okay.” Quentin chuckled wryly. “Show-off.”

“What?” Eliot shrugged. “I’m good in bed, it’s nothing to be coy about.” He rose to his feet. “Now, come along. As much fun as I’m having, I’m sure there are more exciting places to continue this conversation than in someone’s bathroom. Do you want to get out of here?”

Following on his previous insinuations, this question came across as far from innocent, but Quentin was currently undergoing a rather overwhelming combination of emotions involving shock, giddiness, irritation, chagrin, and dizzying anticipation of what the night might bring, now that Eliot was here—so he was too distracted to feel nervous.

They left without saying goodbye to James and Julia, but Quentin didn’t even care. When he was near Eliot, the rest of the world seemed to fade into black-and-white.


End file.
